Lockdown: A Tale Of Emotional Kneads
Sam’s cinnamon plops
Lockdown has proved to be a rollercoaster of emotions and honestly, it’s really taken the biscuit. With no previous experience of a pandemic it has been difficult to find an accurate way to measure my ever changing emotional state. During lockdown I tapped into my inner Mary Berry, and have realised that my baking journey was the symbolic indicator of my lockdown emotions and indeed my emotional kneads. I have experienced the highs of triple layer sponge cakes, the bitterness of lemon blondies, and burnt out feelings after accidentally setting the oven too high. Thankfully, there have been no soggy bottoms during lockdown, in any respect of the phrase.
Lockdown began well: I was full of hope and enthusiasm. The world was my oyster, and staying home was a piece of cake. Flour was set to replace toilet roll as the new currency in a post COVID-19 world with baking becoming a daily activity for most of the British public. Luckily, for a pro like myself, ingredients for a sponge cake are always readily available. I embarked on my first mission: a triple layered Victoria Sponge. I wanted to impress, and I meant business. Not only was there a jam and vanilla buttercream filling but piping work involving fresh cream. The cake was indeed a showstopper. My family and neighbours marvelled at the beauty of my light and airy sponge, a description that well applied to the creator as I lightly skipped to my next entertaining Zoom ‘pub quiz’, cake in hand.
The weeks drew on and I felt the sudden urge to try something new. The classic Viccy Sponge was not cutting it for me anymore and so began the experimentation period of lockdown. I had a surplus of blueberries (a failed attempt at healthy eating) and the hunger for a challenge. Welcome to the cake stand: lemon, white chocolate and blueberry blondies. The recipe proved intricate and I overcame many obstacles like the lack of an electric whisk and the consequent arm cramp I experienced after twenty minutes of aggressive beating. By the time my blondies had baked I was exhausted but determined to maintain some sense of decoration and I haphazardly drizzled melted chocolate over the finished product. The blondies received praise from Newcastle’s answer to Paul Hollywood (and my biggest baking critic), my Dad. He exclaimed: “Aye they’re alreet like, nice with a coffee”, a review overshadowed by the Victoria Sponge’s previous “Did you not buy that from the shops?!”. The blondies lacked the fudgey element of a traditional brownie and my aching arms suggested that the effort was more than the outcome. I still maintained optimism; I had tried something new, but had no intention of remaking the blondies post lockdown.
Lockdown continued. My optimism did not. With the weeks drawing on I began to despair. I had come to the end of my university exams and was left asking the question ‘‘what now?’’. The answer seemed to come in the form of an ‘easy’ recipe for cinnamon rolls, something I had never made before. This had been recommended to me by a trusted baking accomplice - she bragged of her soft rolls and sweet cream cheese frosting without having to use yeast or complicated bread making techniques. I planned my bake; this would be my saving grace and entertain me for at least an hour. I followed the recipe, weighed out my ingredients carefully and precisely. I poured in the cinnamon thinking to myself two tablespoons seemed a lot. It was a lot… in fact it was two tablespoons too much and I should have been using teaspoons. I accepted my fate that this bake would be the equivalent of the viral ‘cinnamon challenge’ and attempted to continue kneading my dough. The kneading continued, my hands began to glue together with the stickiness of the dough and the ever-impending sense of doom that this was to be a disaster. I attempted to roll out the dough and splattered the filling into the centre. As the sugar solution oozed over the side and onto the kitchen bench, I realised I was no longer in control. The ball of dough became sentient and whispered to me it was here to ruin my ‘Bake Off’ dreams, as well as my baking tray. I rolled the dough as tightly as I could and attempted to slice it into gorgeous little swirls of deliciousness. Queue the cinnamon plops. The dough was misshapen, loosely rolled and one even looked like it was frowning at me. I felt deflated, as did my swirls.
What went on in that oven would probably baffle scientists themselves. The cinnamon plops turned hard and scone like rather than fluffy pillows of bread. The sugar filling caramelised on the tops and bottoms of the bake strengthening the toughness of the bake so much so I could have laid the foundations of a semi-detached three-bedroom house. I looked at the lava like sugar substance which had ruined my baking trays, my counter tops, and any sense of pride I had left. In sheer denial, I unsuccessfully attempted to decorate the plops with cream cheese frosting and hide my shame. The plops represented ten weeks of tumultuous emotions: having half of my final year of university ripped from me, not being able to see friends, and the impending uncertainty regarding my job, my degree, and any sense of normality. I felt like a failure and the cinnamon plops were the cherry on top of my self-deprecation. My self-esteem began to crumble, like a hobnob left dunked too long in the giant mug of tea that is life.
It took a few days, but I eventually came to terms with the fact that not every day will be a Victoria Sponge day. Some days, unfortunately, are destined to be cinnamon plops, and with the added pressures of a global pandemic we should probably not be too harsh on ourselves during a ‘plop’ day. One bad bake does not determine a bad baker: surely Mary Berry herself is guilty of a baking faux pas every now and then, in the same way that everyone I’ve spoken to during lockdown has also had days where they feel as low as a ruined soufflé. One bad day does not determine your mood for the rest of your life, particularly in a global pandemic. You do not have to critique yourself constantly, as your life is not the ‘Bake Off’ final (and mine is definitely further from that after said cinnamon plops). With lockdown restrictions easing, I think it’s important to remember this and even if we haven’t mastered a new recipe or skill if we at least recognise the need to be a bit kinder to ourselves that’s probably a more useful lesson. In the words of the great Ronan Keating “life is a rollercoaster, you’ve just gotta’ ride it”. I hope your snacks along the way are slightly more enjoyable than the cursed cinnamon plops.
Written by Sam Turnbull
Sam has just graduated from Newcastle University where she studied English Literature and French. Sam has recently moved back home with her parents and enjoys long walks with her dog George, pints of Desperados on draft, karaoke, pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.